Lineage
by IEatBooksForTea
Summary: The survivors of the mountain said nothing. They kept the experience locked tight inside their hearts. No wonder their grandchildren are so curious about the history of their grandparents. So when they all receive a letter in the post tempting them to the mountain, what will they discover? And what really went down on that mountain?
1. Because I forgot to wear gloves

**Synopsis:** The survivors of the mountain said nothing. They kept the experience locked tight inside their hearts. No wonder their grandchildren are so curious about the history of their grandparents. So when they all receive a letter in the post tempting them to the mountain, what will they discover? And what really went down on that mountain?

 **Genre:** Mystery, Humour, Romance, Angst, Horror

 **Ending:** All survive

 **Rating:** T/M – Just in case, you know...

 **A/N:** _I don't give myself a break, do I? As soon as I finish 'After', I'm on to another fic..._

 _Firstly, I'd like to give credit to The Ben Who Must Not Be Named for indirectly inspiring me to write this. Honestly, this idea popped out of nowhere and I got way too excited about it, I had to start writing it down._

 _I hope you all enjoy it! - and for those who have read 'After', I hope you like this one just as much!_

* * *

 **Chapter One**

 _ **Because I forgot to wear gloves**_

Why the hell didn't I tie my hair up? This horrendous wind keeps scooping clumps of my hair into my face then laughing mockingly at me through the trees. This is a terribly unattractive look.

"Boo!" Two hands grab my shoulders from behind and I'm almost whipping around and smacking him one in the face - when I realise it's only Emmett.

If he had access to my brain right now, he'd be commenting, with a chuckle, " _Only?_ "

"Shove off," I tease, pushing him in the shoulder before proceeding to shove my blue beanie further down over my strawberry blonde hair.

Hurt spreads across Emmett's Asian features and he clutches the left side of his chest in mock pain. "How could you, Issie? That _hurt_."

I roll my eyes. I've never been much of a fan of nicknames, especially since the name 'Ice-cream' was appointed to me over the colour of my hair - also, because I spilled ice-cream all over myself in 5th grade and had to spend the rest of the day traipsing around in fusty, spare climbing class clothes for the rest of the day.

But Issie is a little easier to remember than Ismay - so I'll let Emmett off.

Trust my parents to be all creative over names - apparently, it was in honour of my grand parents, who didn't spare my father with a _normal_ name.

"Did you get a letter too?" I ask Emmett who nods and proceeds to stick his gloved hand into his pocket - sensible. I should have worn gloves - and pull out a folded piece of paper.

He unfolds it, the wind tugging at it making it incredibly difficult for Emmett to keep the paper straight, and reveals the all too familiar, printed words;

 **If you want to know the truth about your grandparents, come to Blackwood mountain.**

 **9pm, Tuesday night.**

"So, this is the place, huh?" Emmett glances up, folding the paper back into his pocket, and fighting through the wind to lift his gaze up the mountain – where, supposedly, all the secrets are held.

"Apparently," I mumble, sticking my hands into the pockets of my jacket to keep them warm – seriously, I _really_ should have brought gloves.

The letter had come at an ominous time. I'd received it in the post a day after I'd gone to visit my grandfather in the nursing home. It was mainly for an introductory task in the journaling night class I've been taking; to write an article on the life of a grandparent. You know how all these people have stories of grandparents who had been in a war or fought for a forbidden love or... you know, _interesting_ stuff like that. Grandpa however didn't have a story like that; his basically consisted of how he dropped his cellphone in a swimming pool once and was genius enough to fix it – so a cellphone company hired him to do beta testing. _Boring._

So, when the letter arrived, it was a far too tempting to resist. I couldn't help it – I'm a competitive person. And I'm not going to let Patricia have a better article than me. Screw ' _Swimming pool cellphone accident'_.

I'm sure Grandma would have had a much more interesting story. Apparently, she was really creative, really lively – at least, that's what Dad said. I bet she fought for what she wanted and created the reality that she desired. She would probably tell me all about her love story between her and Grandpa. And her eyes would probably light up when she told me all about how he proposed.

But Grandma is suffering from dementia. It's... kind of sad. It hurts when she doesn't recognise me.

I don't like to talk about it.

I called Chandler pretty much straight after I got the letter – in case he got one too. Apparently he had. But he couldn't go because of baby Ashton. I almost keep forgetting that he's married and has a baby now – I always just remember him as the disgusting older brother thinking he looked so cool in front of girls while he picked his nose. Well, apparently, someone eventually did! I feel for her. Who knew what was going through her mind when she agreed to marry him.

Older brothers are supposed to be the protective type, right? Apparently not for me. Chandler was fully supportive of me going to a creepy, freezing mountain on my own. Great job, brother.

Although, now I'm not on my own. I'll let him off this time.

"Should we maybe...?" Emmett suggests, stabbing his thumb in the direction of the pathway up the mountain.

I nod, hissing through my teeth, before taking the first step underneath the "Blackwood Pines" signed archway and towards whatever truth awaits us.

* * *

"I bet it's locked," Emmett grumbles as he eyes the cable car station just ahead in the distance.

I breathe out, watching my breath swirl in the ice cold wind before evaporating into the trees. "Wouldn't be surprised," I hum, rubbing my hands together to circulate _some_ kind of warmth.

Emmett's eyes casually dip down to my hands, amused for the briefest moment. Then something evidently clicks in his head. "Oh, you didn't bring gloves?" He asks, pulling his hands out of his pockets and prying off his oversized gloves.

I glance up at him, shaking my head. "Nah, it's alright."

Emmett, being the guy he is, doesn't listen and shoves them against my chest. He lets go and they tumble into my hands.

"Seriously, Emmett, I'm fine."

"You're so stubborn," Emmett mutters, our boots crunching in the snow as we grow near the building. A cracked light bulb hangs from the porch, creaking eerily. I shiver. And not just because of the cold. Whatever light used to come out of that thing isn't coming out anymore, _that's_ for sure.

I roll my eyes. "Fine," I sigh, but I'm secretly glad he offered. I don't know how long I've been enviously eyeing those gloves of his for.

Tugging them on, my fingers too skinny to fill up the spaces within the fabric, I watch Emmett circle towards the doorway of the station. The glass set in the door looks frozen up and completely frosted over. If a hand slammed against the glass from the inside right now, I'd be screaming my head off and running back down the mountain, no matter what Emmett – or anyone else – would think of me.

"Okay," Emmett flexes his muscles and rolls his shoulders as if he's gearing up for a boxing fight. Then he takes a few steps forward, his boots echoing against the iced over wooden porch, and reaches his hand for the door handle-

"I wouldn't even try that," a low, gruff voice sounds from what feels like right behind me ear.

I shriek, swinging around, fully prepared to knock whoever the person is out.

Then he stumbles back, a goofy grin on his face, flinging his hands up in the air. "Slow down there, pony."

I almost growl at him.

"Who the hell are you?" Emmett snaps forward, appearing beside me. I jump, my heart pounding ridiculously in my chest. Would these guys stop scaring the daylights out of me?

"Weylyn," he offers, his hand outstretched towards Emmett. When the latter stares down at it, refusing to pick it up, Weylyn casually moves over to offer it towards me. As if it were my duty, I reluctantly stretch my hand out and clasp his for a very short, very abrupt handshake. With a smile, Weylyn pulls back his hand and runs his gloved fingers – seriously, was I the _only_ one who forgot? - through his short, dark hair.

"And this," Weylyn continues, stepping to the side to reveal a timid, frail looking girl all wrapped up in about twenty layers, "Is Miriam."

I peer at her, her eyes darting away, nervous and shivering. Like a mouse. She darts a lock of blonde hair behind her ear with a finger, like it's a habit of hers.

"We're cousins."

* * *

 **A/N:** _So, I_ know _it's different. And I hope you like it, especially since it's almost purely OC driven... which is a daunting thing to put out into the world. Characters that have already been created within a fandom are already well cherished and loved. I have to now_ convince _you to like Ismey and Emmett and Weylyn and Miriam – along with all the other characters that will appear. It's a very alarming task. I hope I can do it justice._

 _I wonder... how many of you can guess correctly as the who is the grandparent/s of each character?_


	2. Because cousins always have hair grips

**Synopsis:** The survivors of the mountain said nothing. They kept the experience locked tight inside their hearts. No wonder their grandchildren are so curious about the history of their grandparents. So when they all receive a letter in the post tempting them to the mountain, what will they discover? And what really went down on that mountain?

 **Genre:** Mystery, Humour, Romance, Angst, Horror

 **Ending:** All survive

 **Rating:** T/M – Just in case, you know...

 **A/N:** _It's encouraging to see the response to this fic! I'm hoping it'll only get better from here! I'm debating on two different approaches for this fic so far (as to what is going to happen) so watch this space! Replies to reviews will be at the bottom of my chapters for this fic._

 _Also, just so you guys know, this fic is going to switch between a couple of POV's, just like 'After' did. It should be pretty easy to follow!_

* * *

 **Chapter Two**

 _ **Because half cousins always have hair grips**_

"Well, _technically_ , we're half cousins," I shrug nonchalantly, completely unfazed by the two pairs of eyes that are glaring daggers at me. "It's a long story," I sigh. "Our grandma," I start, flicking a hand between myself and Miriam, "Got married to my granddad. And they had my dad. And then they got divorced and our grandma upped and married some other guy and had her," I say, pointing to Miriam, "Mom."

I let out a breath of air like all this talking has sucked out all my energy. Miriam slides her gaze over to me, a meaningful yet subtle look in her eyes. One that says, _'Did you_ really _have to say that?'_

Every. Time.

"Why are you here?" The Asian dude narrows his eyes at me, completely disregarding everything that I just said. Rude.

"Presumedly," I shuffle, sticking my hand into my pocket and pulling out a folded letter, "For the same reason as you."

The girl – the one who was _decent_ enough to shake my hand – audibly gasps. I chuckle.

"I assume you don't need to see it?" I question, offering the letter over to her. Her eyes hover across it, debating, before she stiffly shakes her head.

"Good," I smile before pulling the letter back and stuffing it once again into my pocket. "Because I have a feeling I'd get tired of that."

"Why?" the girl asks cautiously, her voice tight and constrained. I can see the anxiety in her eyes. This girl needs to seriously lighten up. "You think there's more of us?"

"Well, sure," I send her a crooked grin – one which she really doesn't seem to appreciate, before circling around, the snow crunching underneath my hiking boots. The pair of strangers stiffen their shoulders, shifting to make sure their eyes are on me the whole time. I shrug them off.

Miriam huddles beside me, matching my long strides with tiny ones of hers – poor girl, she's always been short. She's the only one I won't shrug off. Ever since her mom died and she came to live with us, I've adopted her as more of a sister. Not one of the annoying sister kinds. The ones I want to protect.

"Do you really think we came here unprepared?" I say casually, striding towards the door of the cable car station, feeling the hard gaze of the two strangers on my back. Irritating.

Miriam tugs at my elbow. I glance at her, my gaze settling and easing. Seriously, she's my weakness.

She points down at her backpack. Her eyes ask, ' _Should we show them?_ '

"Sure," I nod, tugging on the handle of the door – locked as I'd expected.

Just before Miriam slips behind me to show the pair the contents of our bag, I reach out and snag a hair grip from her hair. She freezes, clasping onto her head like I've just ripped off one of her limbs. She glares at me. I grin back, a look that says ' _You love me_ really'.

She mocks me with one of her stupid faces before tugging out the plastic folder from her backpack and pushing it towards the two dumbstruck strangers.

I pry the hair grip open with my teeth before crouching down at eye level with the lock, inserting the hair grip into it.

Another one of those gasps come from the strawberry headed girl and I can hear the flicking of paper. "Do you really think we'd come here without doing any research?"

"What is this?" The Asian guy mutters harshly under his breath.

I feign surprise and turn my gaze up to look at him. His dark eyes are shadowed by the moonlight. But I can tell they are staring darkly and directly at me. He's not comfortable with me here.

I snort. He's all tight up about me encroaching on his territory. Seriously, the dude needs to calm down. I'm not gonna hit on strawberry top.

"Newspaper articles," I muse with a smirk. "Miriam checked out any articles about Blackwood Mountain in the last fifty or sixty odd years. Handy having a half-cousin who's a studying historian. She gets a free past into the archives."

I send a proud grin in Miriam's direction who sends me an unamused smile. I wink at her. She looks like she wants to slap me on the ear and tell me to behave. Ever the mother figure.

"Washington sisters missing," Strawberry top reads from the top article in the folder, her eyes skimming the words quickly. I can see the fear and anxiety rising up in her eyes, like she's suffocating from it. Her voice certainly sounds like that. "You think our grandparents had something to do with this?" Her eyes lift, settling them on the Asian dude. Her eyebrows are knotted in thought.

Asian dude plucks the folder from her hands, skimming his finger across the page. "The sisters were spending time with their brother and seven of their friends at their parents lodge at the top of the mountain when they went missing. No one has seen them since." Asian dude's jaw tightens, his adam's apple jerking as he swallows. His eyes are dark. "Maybe they were one of the friends?"

I shake my head, amused, returning my attention to the lock. I stick my tongue out, mocking the way Miriam always looks like when she's concentrating – I'm pretty sure I just felt her glare smack me at the back of the neck – as I wiggle the hair grip inside the lock. Waiting for that telling click.

"Are their names in here?" Strawberry top's voice asks.

No answer. That was probably Asian dude shaking his head. Does any of them think we'd actually need to come here if we'd found all the answers already?

I can hear the girl breathe. I can almost hear the sound her mind working, twisting, the cogs groaning. "So they had something to do with those girls disappearances?" Smart girl.

"Apparently," I hum before the lock clicks and I victoriously pull the hair grip out and grin. "There! Open!"

Successfully, I stretch to my feet and twist the handle, the door easily swinging open. "Tada," I smile smugly, proudly spreading my arm in the direction of it.

Asian dude glares at me as the pair pass me, into the room. His look is a warning; _'Don't think so highly of yourself'_.

I shake my head, amused, before scooping Miriam's arm into mine. She glances at me worried but I give her a reassuring smile. There's nothing to be worried about. "Come on, partner," I hum, mockingly skipping into the cable car station. Miriam looks like she'd rather die.

* * *

"It's not here," the Asian dude's voice echoes in the small, tight room. The cable car station looks like a tramps hideaway. It's covered in dust and rust and stinks of rotting bananas. I wrinkle my nose and glance jokingly at Miriam, wafting my hand in front of my face. Miriam rolls her eyes, unamused. Though my experienced eyes can recognise the slightest tug at the side of her lips. The tiniest hint of a smile. She loves me _really_.

The cable car station is also eerily vacant of the all important _cable car_.

"Not much use now," Strawberry top sighs, adjusting her beanie on her head, her shoulder slumping, irritated. "Might as well go home now."

But before she can storm out of the building, Miriam has snapped her arm up to point out the window. There, the ominous creaking trailing behind it, is the cable car. Slowly creeping down the wire towards us.

"Somebody's up there," the Asian guy's voice is tight, his eyes locked on the metal cage of a car creaking towards us.

"Looks like _somebody_ installed their brain this morning," I retort. That cable car would not be moving right now. Not without someone at the top controlling it.

Somebody knows we're here. Someone's expecting us.

…

 **A/N:** _HeatherIsobel: For some reason, you can't drag me away from writing an UD fanfic xD_

 _DouchebagMentlegen: Ding ding, pretty much correct – aside from the fact that Emily did_ ** _not_** _hook up with Matt... ;) And, as explained in this chapter. Weylyn is both Mike and Jess' grandchild, but Miriam is only Jess'. It's kind of complicated. Also Patricia is a total red herring. I just plucked a name out of the top of my head XD No meaning behind it, sorry!_

 _Indy0321: Ahaha, yep! I'm glad you loved 'After'! Although this one is going to be quite different – though it still has the mystery aspect – I hope you'll love it just as much! And well done for getting almost all the grandparents right!_

 _DreamsCPape: 'Break' is not a word in my vocabulary xD I'm glad you love this one, despite it being OC based... I wanted to try something slightly different. And it's fun to dictate what the grandchildren of the original characters would look/act like xD Updating daily? I can't guarantee it, but by the rate I'm going right now, probably XD I have two pairings of the original characters; Chris and Ash (obviously...), and Mike and Jess (though they didn't stay together, as can be seen in this chapter). I'm smiling too! Reading your review! Thanks!_


	3. Because Squishy is not my name

**Synopsis:** The survivors of the mountain said nothing. They kept the experience locked tight inside their hearts. No wonder their grandchildren are so curious about the history of their grandparents. So when they all receive a letter in the post tempting them to the mountain, what will they discover? And what really went down on that mountain?

 **Genre:** Mystery, Humour, Romance, Angst, Horror

 **Ending:** All survive

 **Rating:** T/M – Just in case, you know...

 **A/N:** _Thank you to everyone who has read and reviewed so far! I hope you like this chapter! Things are gonna get_ _SERIOUS._

* * *

 **Chapter 3**

 _ **Because Squishy is not my name**_

"Ester," Brayden pokes me on the shoulder for about the fifteenth time.

"What?" I breathe, eyes captured by the spanning, endless scenery. It's so beautiful here, the trees dipped in snow like its icing sugar. Someone high in the sky has taken their paintbrush, scooped it in the liquid of the moon and brushed it against the tips of the trees and along the far off hills and hidden in the crevices of the Rocky Mountain side. It makes me breathless. Even more so than the breeze chilling my pale skin.

Dad says I take after Gran. Apparently she was a hipster too.

What was his words? " _Appreciative of nature_ "? He said she never once fed him meat as a child. I think she had to cross the line at dairy products though. I mean, he and Aunt Hannah had to be given _some_ kind of milk to drink as babies.

Plus; who could go without cheese?

"There's more people coming," Brayden plonks his hands on my shoulders, his voice drawling, like he's just woken up or something. There's always something about Brayden that makes him sound like he's constantly doped up.

Who knows who _he_ takes after?

Before I can even shake him off, I hear the ominous creek of the wire as it strains on the weight of the cable car tugging up the mountain. I let out a sigh. Part of me had been expecting that me and my cousin wouldn't be the only ones invited to this place. For a moment, I'd been hoping to keep this jewel to myself.

But art isn't meant to be kept to yourself. It's meant to be shared. To be appreciated together.

When that company is Brayden, however, that's a difficult thing to achieve.

"What do we say?" I pass a glance at Brayden, pushing his hands away from my shoulders – which move surprisingly easily.

He shrugs unevenly. "Hello?" He suggests, letting out a huff of a laugh. Not even a full laugh. He can't even be bothered to conjure up enough energy to make it last more than a second.

"Very funny. Brayden," I sigh, shaking the fringe of my cropped short, blonde hair. Almost simultaneously, Brayden sways his shaggy, dark blonde locks. I hate that hairstyle on him. Specifically because it looks ominously like mine. Though I'd have to make a defence and say mine is far more artistically cut. To compliment my small frame and tight face shape. And to stand out as a part of me. An expression of who I am.

Brayden's is like it is because he can't be bothered to get it cut.

 _Okay, Ester_ , I straighten out my red, tartan coat, plastering on a neat smile on my face. _They'll be as confused as you when they come off the car. You just need to be there to calm their fears and you can all work together to-_

The cable car clicks into place, the door sliding open with a rusting, ear-piercing screech.

"Seriously, back off!"

The smile is ripped off my face as soon as the voice cuts towards us.

Whoever is within that car isn't exactly getting along.

"Dude, it's cool. We're cool." One of the males lifts their arms up in defence, sending the Asian one a sheepish grin. Their voices are battling off inside the small, metallic room. I'm surprised that they didn't snap the wire by vibrating and shaking the cable car so much.

"Then keep your hands away from her," the other male growls.

"Seriously, Emmett, it's fine," a female joins in. Her tone, however, flickers with the tiniest hint of irritation. A voice that says, ' _I can look after myself_.'

"Issie, you've got to stop being so _stubborn_ and let me-"

But before he can finish his sentence with " _kick his balls in_ " or something to that effect, I find my hand lifting weakly and offering an awkward, "Hi."

All four heads turn in my direction. Silence cuts in. Eyes bulge.

"Oh hey," one of the guys sways out of the cable car, his movements dripping with _swag_. His eyes drag down my body, analysing me with a disturbing lick of his lips. I'm very tempted to smack that smirk off his face. But then I'd be being confrontational. _No confrontation, Ester._ That's what my yoga teacher said. After I accidentally left my cellphone on in class and it started playing Whistle by Flo Rider as my ringtone. What? Brayden got a hold of my phone at one of our family gatherings. He thought he was being really funny by changing my ringtone.

It's safe to say I've changed it back.

The guy is still examining me, his eyes determining to figure me out somehow. His gaze crawls along my skin, like there's worms crawling under there, making me shiver and jerk.

Then the guy decides. With a satisfied smirk, he says, "Squishy." A nickname. I shake my head, letting out a sigh. Brayden beside me chuckles throatily as if he's totally _in_ on it. It's obvious why this guy has called me that. It's based on my plump cheeks and button nose, despite my petite figure.

"This is Strawberry Top," Mr. Ego (see, I can come up with my own nicknames) sweeps his arm behind him in the general direction of the girl with a blue beanie, strawberry blonde hair and a glare in her eyes. "And this is Asian dude."

"We _do_ have names, you know," the girl grinds her teeth, setting her jaw and firing a dagger of a look in the direction of Mr. Ego. Setting her shoulders, she turns towards me and Brayden, introducing herself as Ismay and her friend as Emmett.

"Yes!" Mr. Ego sounds delighted as he steps out away from the cable car door, a huddled up, blonde girl following him. "As Strawberry Top said."

A groan cuts in from Ismay. I chuckle.

"We have names! I'm Weylyn," Mr. Ego grins, proudly pointing at himself. "And Miriam here," he points at the demure girl, his eyes dipping in a rare affection. "Is my cousin. Well, _technically,_ we're half-cou-"

"Oh coooooool," Brayden snaps up as if he's just woken up. I wouldn't be surprised if he had actually been sleeping. I'm pretty sure I've caught him sleeping standing up multiple times. "We're cousins too!" He smiles proudly, looking at me with those wide, bulging eyes. Slowly, I shake my head at him. He doesn't seem to realise that I'm unamused.

Weylyn nods slowly, recoiling back on himself, almost running into Miriam who lightly slaps him on the shoulder. Well, that shut him up.

"So, who are you?" Emmett takes a step forward, the atmosphere dipping in seriousness as soon as he speaks. I find myself subconsciously gulping as if my body is preparing for something. He doesn't exactly exude a free spirit.

"Oh, sorry," I find a smile to fit to my face. "I'm Ester-"

"No," he cuts me off. I almost stumble back, my eyes widening. Brayden isn't even paying enough attention to catch me if I'd fallen over. Emmett's eyes flicker with an apology. "I meant," he corrects, coughing. "Were you the ones who brought us here?" He pulls out the letter from his pocket and I recognise it instantly, my hands finding their way into my pockets and thumbing along the ridge of my own letter.

"Did you control the cable car to bring us up?" Ismay asks, taking her place beside Emmett.

Brayden helpfully – also unbelievably – shakes his head.

"No," I say slowly, pulling the letter out to match Emmett's. Like we're playing snap or something. "It happened the same for us. The cable car just appeared."

I shrug as if that would help the situation. But all eyes are uncomfortably still on me. All confused. All excited – well, _some_ excited.

"Who controlled it then?" Emmett asks slowly, his Adam's apple bobbing, eyes glancing between person to person. I can't help but notice the way he skims over Brayden. Well, it wouldn't take a genius to see that Brayden wouldn't be much help.

Wyelyn's eyes light up and sizzle with cheeky excitement, his lips about to open to impart some of his genius knowledge. But then the sound breaks with a crackle – a nearby speaker – and a voice cuts through it.

"Welcome!" the manipulated voice laughs with a cackle. Shivers run up my spine, my breath hitching. It's almost like they're breathing down my neck. I flinch, my breaths shallow. All of our eyes catch onto each other. Swallowing. "It's so lovely to have you here."

The cable car doors slam shut. The car creaks as it's pushed back down the mountain. Leaving us here. Trapped.

The voice twists, chillingly pleasant; "I hope you enjoy your stay."

* * *

 **A/N:** _Bam! It's getting interesting now!_

 _Hard to handle so many characters in one place, haha! I wonder if you have a favourite?_


	4. Because my cellphone beats waffles

**Synopsis:** The survivors of the mountain said nothing. They kept the experience locked tight inside their hearts. No wonder their grandchildren are so curious about the history of their grandparents. So when they all receive a letter in the post tempting them to the mountain, what will they discover? And what really went down on that mountain?

 **Genre:** Mystery, Humour, Romance, Angst, Horror

 **Ending:** All survive

 **Rating:** T/M – Just in case, you know...

 **A/N:** _This is going a lot differently to 'After'! And honestly, there's a heck of a lot of stuff to come... I hope you guys enjoy!_

* * *

 **Chapter 4**

 _ **Because my cellphone beats waffles**_

The speaker crackles to an end. Silence. Six pairs of eyes flickering over one another. Chest tight. Breath suffocated. Caught in a web.

Well... this is creepy.

"I knew we should have just stayed in bed and eaten waffles," Weylyn purrs as he slings his arm around my shoulders - and quickly retracts it when Emmett throws him a hearty glare.

Apparently, Emmett has appointed himself as my bodyguard. Who gave him to permission to upgrade from Uni friend, I don't know. Emmett and I had met each other in one of my lectures at the university. I've been studying English literature. Emmett is studying law. Why a law student was in a Literature lecture, you ask? Apparently, it was an extra-curricular module for him. As in, he did it for fun.

I know. Crazy.

"This was a mistake," my voice is tight as I fling the words out of my mouth. I tug my cellphone out of my pocket, switching on the screen. It bleeps with no signal. A desperate groan escapes my throat.

"Hey, can I get your number?" Weylyn plucks the phone from my hands, grinning while he huddles over the screen, flicking through my contacts.

"Hey!" I snap at him, grabbing for it back. He smugly dangles it above his head. I scramble at him, totally prepared to scratch his eyes out to get it back, the asshole. Damn him. Damn me for being too short. "Give it back, you dic-"

I smack him on the chest just as he stumbles back, catching himself on the railing. And my cellphone slips out of his hand, tumbling down the side of the mountain with a loud _crack_.

I watch in horror as it disappears, plunging into the mist. Emmett grabs at my waist, like he's afraid I'll climb over the railing and go after it.

Miriam catches Weylyn by the arm, tugging him back before he plummets in the same direction of my cellphone. It would serve him _right_.

"Oh, hell no," I growl under my breath, shaking Emmett off me before stomping up to the asshole. My palm hits his cheek with a satisfied _smack_. "You're paying for that!" Weylyn clutches his cheek, his eyes wide and shocked, like he'd never expected me to do that. He'd been pushing his luck, what _did_ he expect?

His eye twitches, his lips quirking a lopsided smirk – but he hisses as soon he does, the pain from my slap evidently zipped up his face. I look down at my hand proudly, flexing my fingers. Palms of steel.

"Sorry to interrupt your little scuffle," Ester hums. Her cousin beside her looks like he could have just nipped to the kitchen, made some popcorn and come back to chomp on it as he watches us. Though by the way his eyes are half-lidded, I'm curious as to whether he can see out of them at _all_.

"But I think," Ester braves herself, lifting her head up. Already taking the leader's position? "We should maybe make a _move_."

Just then, the door to the inside of cable car station creaks open.

Miriam tugs at Weylyn's sleeve before pointing at the speaker. Does she really never speak? Weylyn mutters back, and she nods.

"Miriam thinks this guy wants us to go in there," he shrugs the words off nonchalantly, while Miriam continues to nod and point in the direction of the room.

"Because doing exactly what the maniac says is _totally_ the way to go," Emmett mutters under his breath. My ears are accustomed to catching to the low rumblings of his voice. I send him an amused glance. He rolls his eyes in response, the tiniest hint of a smile tugs at his lips. As much as he's stepped beyond his boarders with the whole bodyguard facade – seriously, women can defend themselves, you know – I'm grateful for a familiar face here.

But that all feels slightly suffocated by the heavy atmosphere.

Ester takes the first steps into the room – ever the leader – before tugging Brayden behind her. He seems to go easily, scratching at his hair like he's got flees. I shiver, making a mental note to keep away from him. You know, just in case.

Soon, we're all shuffling into the cramped space. There isn't really any other option... aside from hang out in the cold for who knows how many hours or volunteer to jump off the mountain side.

As soon as Weylyn, the last of us, steps into the room with his arm protectively around Miriam's shoulders, the door slams shut.

Emmett swears under his breath. He doesn't sound particularly excited about the current events.

That makes it two of us.

"Okay, battle plans," Ester swivels around to face us. She captures the attention of all of us, her voice strong and confident. But my eyes can't help but wander behind her, catching the side of scoured walls, the faint outline of the word _'DIE'_ sprawled across the wall. I shiver. Obviously somebody tried to scrub them off. But their remnants are still there. Haunting this place.

"Welcoming," I mutter, bringing my arms up to wrap around my torso, shaking away the quivering feeling running up my back. Like cold, bony fingers poking at my spine. I jerk the thought away.

"I say we stick it out," Weylyn volunteers.

It feels awfully stuffy in here. Something feels really hot. I rub at the bare skin of my forearms, feeling a prickling snake up them. "Guys," I voice up, a gut feeling that something isn't _right_ here – well, was this _ever_ right here? - twisting in my stomach. But everyone seems far too bothered by their childish arguments.

"I say we _don't_ ," Emmett sends the other male a narrowed eye look before settling his gaze back on Ester. Brayden gurgles out a laugh, enjoying another show.

A cough hacks out of my throat. It's like I've swallowed something I shouldn't. Like it's stuck in my windpipe. I heave a breath, my eyes watering in fear, and splutter out another cough.

"Would you boys just stop bickering?" Ester sighs, talking like she were addressing two younger brothers. "And-"

 _Thump._

Silence cuts in.

"Where's Miriam?" Weylyn's voice is surprisingly tiny. Panicked.

That's when we notice the smoke. Lingering at our ankles. Swirling around. Slithering the fragile figure of Miriam collapsed on the floor.

I choke on another cough. Light-headed. I clutch my forehead, squinting as my eyesight blurs. I'm _sure_ I put my contacts in this morning.

Cough cough _cough_. My throat's burning.

The voices around me are swirling. Getting distant, indistinct. I stumble backwards.

The shrill cry of my name from Emmett's lips breaks through it, my eyes squinting at his unfocused face just as I topple and hit the floor. _Smack_.

Blackness.

* * *

 _ **Mogitz:** Brayden is a bit of a dope! So fun to write, hahaha!_

 _ **DreamsCPape:** I don't think I'll ever get a review from you that _doesn't _have a question in it xD You'll have to wait and see!_

 ** _DouchebagMentlegen:_** _-snort- That made me laugh! Nope! They're 18-20 years old. Essentially early university years._


	5. Because electric shocks are the worst

**Synopsis:** The survivors of the mountain said nothing. They kept the experience locked tight inside their hearts. No wonder their grandchildren are so curious about the history of their grandparents. So when they all receive a letter in the post tempting them to the mountain, what will they discover? And what really went down on that mountain?

 **Genre:** Mystery, Humour, Romance, Angst, Horror

 **Ending:** All survive

 **Rating:** T/M – Just in case, you know...

 **A/N:** _This chapter is certainly throwing you in deep. You ready, guys?_

* * *

 **Chapter 5**

 _ **Because electric shocks are the worst**_

 _Uuuuuggghhh_.

My throat lets out an involuntary groan as I shred my cheek from the dank, dry floorboards. The wood is hard and rough on my skin as I push myself up, wincing through my teeth as my temple blazes with heat, throbbing with pain. I can barely see. My head pounds, my eyesight blurred. It's like someone has forced my head in a fishtank – one who's glass hasn't been cleaned for weeks, the algae and moss smothering the sides. I recoil as if I can already inhale the smell. I choke like I can barely breathe.

"Miriam?" I croak, my throat hoarse and raspy. If I was in my right mind right now, I'm sure I'd be making some comment about how it makes me sound like a sexy, movie hero. But my brain is too filled with my half-cousin's face, with the thought of her terrified eyes welling up with tears, her brittle bones rattling in the sack of her skin. I need to be with her. I need to find her. "Miriam?!" My voice is louder now as I stumble to my feet, my eyes squeezing closed and then open, closed and then open, trying to get rid of the blur. But everything around me is so out of focus.

It's all browns and blacks and muddy.

My feet are tripping over themselves – not entirely very attractive – and I'm lumbering forward, hands desperately swinging around, feeling for anyone. Feeling for _Miriam._

Then a sharp pain zaps into my neck and I yelp, swearing viciously under my breath.

"Contestant Number 3," a computerised, female voice – one of those voices that reads out what you type and never pronounces your name right – blasts around me. I wince, about to tell whoever has switched it on to cut the crap out. At the very least, be decent enough to turn the volume down. _Rude_. "Do not move from your designated area. You will be punished."

"Alright, alright," I groan, stumbling back to a safe distance. How I manage to judge that in my bumbling mess, I don't know. My fingers fumble around my neck, feeling a cold metal band wrapped around it. I swear. What the hell is this? The metal feels hot and stings my fingertips. I flinch as it zaps my skin. I hiss, squeezing my eyes shut, gritting my teeth. Whatever this thing is, the pain in my neck had come from it. It had sent an electric shock through my body.

Pleasant.

"Where's Miriam?" I finally croak, forcing any kind of fake confidence into my voice. Even if this person is just a computerised load of crap, I'm not going to let them know I'm scared.

Not for me. Well, not a lot for me.

But for Miriam. I'm supposed to protect her. I'm supposed to be her shield. Her sword. I can't let _anything_ happen to her.

Nothing. No answer.

"Weylyn?"

A female voice. Not Miriam. It couldn't be Miriam, she doesn't speak.

Slowly, I peel my eyelids open. My eyesight is clearing, the murky, watery film dropping away.

It's a bedroom.

Well, the remains of one. Black, burn marks smear the walls, like permanent, oily shadows. Doors are jutting from their hinges and the bed is squint, one of the legs kicked out from under it. The bed covers are smeared with soot – and something that ominously looks red. I cringe. It looks like someone deconstructed this room and then crudely threw it back together.

I drop my gaze to the floor, seeing a precisely drawn circle in white, painted dashes around my feet. I scoff. Is _this_ my designated area?

Slowly, I lift my eyes, adjusting to my surroundings. Then they catch a flash of white. I almost stumble backwards, outside of my lines. I catch myself just before any maniac can send another electric shock through me.

There. In front of me, not five feet away, is a stark white mannequin. How long has that frickin thing been there? It's head is rolled to the side, almost falling off. Well, that's a bit of a plus. At least it's not a _decapitated_ mannequin. That would be creepier.

Someone has stuck a coarse, long black wig to it's head, clothes draped over its bony figure, the top ripped down the front. And a little, crudely drawn black butterfly on it's right shoulder. Even _I_ could do better than that.

"Weylyn!" The voice hisses again.

My neck twists over my shoulder, catching a flash of strawberry blonde from behind a wardrobe door.

"Ismay?" my voice croaks, seeing her harshly anxious eyes poking out from the edge of it, near the floor. It's like she's crouched over. And she's trying to brace herself. Show that she's not scared. But I can see the way she swallows, her dry lips chapped and quivering. I'd offer to freshen them up again – but she doesn't entirely look like she's in the mood for jokes. Neither am I.

"Where the hell are we?" She hisses across the space between us, and I catch a glimpse of metal clamped around her neck too. Ah well. I'm not the favourite then. Damn.

I shrug harshly, far less worried about that then the location of my half-cousin. "Where's Miriam?"

I almost scream as a hand snaps around my ankle. My eyes flash to my feet, seeing a thin, pale arm stretched out to grab at my leg. And the tiniest flicker of Miriam's head sticks out from under the bed.

"Miriam!" I almost shout, relief filling me. I want to drop down and pull her out and _hug_ her. But then the frickin boundary lines and the metal bar around my neck snap back in my mind and I swear.

Miriam tries to smile up at me, assuring me she's fine. She starts tugging on something beside her and I crouch down to look – making sure, as hell, I don't pass those infuriating, white lines – and see a tuft of black hair and hear an incoherent groan.

 _Emmett._

Hell, if he tries to touch her, I'm gonna kick that guy straight in the balls, electric shock or not-

"Damn," a gruff, female voice swears behind me. "The dick stole my _stuff_."

I snap to my feet, circling around to face behind me. There, standing almost directly behind me, is a tall, toned female, her skin dark, her hair black and her face not amused.

It's only then that I realise my backpack is gone, my shoulder bare without it.

"Oh hey," the girl shrugs stiffly, catching my gaze. "And for the record," she holds her finger up, her gaze hard and stone cold. " _Flirting_ doesn't work on me."

"What the-" I stare, shocked, spluttering for words.

Ismay chuckles from behind the wardrobe door, despite the tight atmosphere. "Thank heavens," she mocks, looking relieved that some girl can stand up to me. I groan, rolling my eyes.

"You thought I'd come here unprepared?" The darker skinned girl snaps, sticking a hand on her hip. She raises her black, pruned eyebrows at me. And I feel ultimately intimidated, wanting cringe back. I offer her a sheepish smile. She wipes it off with an unimpressed glare. "I wired the cable car station. Heard all your wonderful, Oscar winning conversations." She scoffs. "Came here ages before you. It wasn't like I was going to stick around to wait for anyone else. Scoped the place out."

She glances down at her nails, blowing over them as if she experiences this kind of thing everyday.

"Let's cut to the crap," she continues. Everyone else in the room has lost their voice. Well, that's easy for Miriam to do. She doesn't _ever_ talk. And Emmett almost looks like he's still knocked out, groggily gazing around him. "I'm Jae."

"Weyly-"

"Don't need your pointless introductions-"

The speaker in the room cuts her out.

"Are my lovely actors and actress awake?" the manipulated voice drawls through. I swear under my breath. The sound of mocking clapping cuts through the speaker. "Okay. Okay. Here we go!" The excitement in his voice chills me. "Act One! Scene One."

An ear piercing scream blasts through the room. And the mannequin's head snaps off.

It hits the ground with an ominous thump and, creaking the floorboards, rolls to my feet, resting right in front of my toes.

What did I say about decapitated mannequins?

* * *

 **A/N:** _I see a lot of Ismay and Emmett shipping going on ;)_

 ** _DreamsCPape:_** _Weylyn is a LOT like his grandfather. Haha, and I'm glad you like my titles! :P They are fun to come up with! A lot of nonsense most of the time._

 ** _DouchebagMentlegan:_** _They are also kids to me!... only because they are actually younger than me XD_

 ** _Mogitz:_** _As you know, I've replied to you in PM. But just holla, shoutout! What? o/_


	6. Because mannequins are creepy

**Synopsis:** The survivors of the mountain said nothing. They kept the experience locked tight inside their hearts. No wonder their grandchildren are so curious about the history of their grandparents. So when they all receive a letter in the post tempting them to the mountain, what will they discover? And what really went down on that mountain?

 **Genre:** Mystery, Humour, Romance, Angst, Horror

 **Ending:** All survive

 **Rating:** T/M – Just in case, you know...

 **A/N:** _Sorry guys. I know you guys were hoping for a chapter yesterday. But I was caught up with work during the day and went out at night with my friends for a birthday. So here I am! On Saturday with a full day off! You'll at least get one chapter today._

* * *

 **Chapter 6**

 _ **Because mannequins are creepy**_

A scream jerks me awake. The floor is icy cold, chilling my skin to the bone like icicles. I flinch, blinking my eyes rapidly. All I can see is wooden floors and wooden walls and... what is that, a kitchen counter? I hiss, my limbs stiff, as I push myself up into a sitting position from where I'm crashed out on the floor. The room is dark, the moon casting unsettling, frosty light across the room, within the cracks between the shadows.

I rub my head, biting my lip as I push myself to my feet, my legs aching. How long have I been lying here? My back hurts. My chest hurts. _Everything_ hurts.

 _Okay, Ester. Stay calm. Find someone else. You can't be alone here._ I take my thoughts as a cue to move. I can barely see anything in front of me, just darkness and wood. And weird shadows.

One step forward. Two. Well, I haven't run into anything yet. That's a great start.

"Hello?" I call out, my voice rough and coarse. I cringe at it, realising I obviously haven't used it in a while. Seriously, how long _have_ I been passed out? "Anyone there?"

A nearby grunt snaps my eyes towards it. That grunt is far too familiar for me not to recognise it. "Brayden?" I ask, my voice trying to stay calm. But my heart is rapidly beating – whether out of fear for where I am or out of relief for hearing a familiar voice... Well, voice is a bit of a push – and no matter how much I try to breathe in and out to settle it, it just beats faster.

And then my heart is not the only thing that's going fast. So are my feet. They're rushing forward, directly towards where I had heard Brayden.

I collide into his passed out body over a kitchen counter, my fingers gripping into his jacket. "Brayden!" I shake him. Nothing. Literally nothing.

What did I expect?

"Seriously, did they drug you with alcohol?" I groan, reaching around to his neck, just to make sure he does still have a pulse. Because, honestly, if he was dead, he would probably still be able to groan. He'd be a great zombie. He's got that down to a T.

But my fingers don't connect with skin. They connect with cold, freezing metal. I swear under my breath, pulling my hand back like the feel of it just burned me. What the hell _is_ that? I peer down to see the metal band wrapped around my cousin's neck, glinting in the dull moonlight, positioned perfectly over his windpipe. I swear again.

Then my fingers are snapped to my neck, expecting to feel a similar metal. But nothing. My neck is free. Just skin. Pure, bare skin. What the _hell_?

Then my eyes catch a glimpse of another figure. Just stood stiffly on the same side of the kitchen counter, unmoving. The figure is cast in shadow and I can barely make out anything about them. But there's a hat. A blue hat?

Ismay! She was wearing a blue hat, wasn't she? I let out a deep sigh of relief, hurrying around the back of Brayden and reaching for Ismay's arm.

"Ismay! Is that you-" My hand connects with cold plastic. My breath hitches. I jerk my hand back. The figure moves. Just swivels swiftly like it's on wheels and suddenly I see it. Across the black plastic of the featureless face are crudely painted white letters; BETH.

The figure moves towards me. I gasp, jumping out of way. Just in time to see it smoothly roll – it's limbs not even moving or shifting at all – towards Brayden. I glance down to it's plastic feet. It's attached to a track, running around the kitchen counter, before diverting towards a corridor that must lead to the outside of whatever the hell this building is.

The mannequin is slowly inching around the kitchen counter, it's movements squeaking, making me cringe at the high pitched noise. When was the last time it's wheels were oiled?

Then I notice the white lines, illuminated by the moonlight, painted in the shape of a human over on the other side of the counter. Eerily like those painted by the police after a murder. I swallow, wasting no time in hurrying around to the other side, avoiding the moving mannequin – that thing is actually getting pretty creepy.

The figure painted on the counter top spreads down the side of it and onto a chair. I reach out, my fingers touching the paint. Tacky. Still wet. _Fresh_.

There, in the centre of the body, someone has stuck a sticky note. Unusual place to find one of those. I reach forward, plucking it up and finding enough light to read the words; "CHANDLER". Then, in brackets underneath it says, "(I wasn't counting on him not coming)".

My eyebrows crease. I have no idea who Chandler is but, whoever this maniac is that knocked us out and brought us all here was really hoping he'd come. Aw. Poor guy. He got stood up.

Another scream rips the air. I glance up in fear, catching the outline of staircases. It sounded like it came from up there.

Whoever is up there needs help.

Without another thought, I abandon the sticky note, sending the mannequin a warning glare that says " _If you dare hurt Brayden, I'm gonna melt your ugly plastic in the fireplace_ " before hurrying up the stairs. The wood creaks violently underneath my fast footsteps. I race up them, not even care if they give way and I fall back where I came from.

My feet guide me, even though my brain has no idea where I'm going. And then there's a door. Cracked ajar. Somehow, I know the scream came from through there. And I race for it, throwing the door open.

 _Mannequins._

All over the place!

One's back is turned to me, black hair stuck to black plastic. And the name _HANNAH_ written crudely down it's back in white paint. I shove past it, staring in horror at the others.

These aren't ordinary mannequins. Their faces are moulded. Not just in any way. They are manipulated to look _exactly_ like the people I only met ten minutes ago – or ten hours, depending on how long I've been knocked out. They're like masks. One of Weylyn, that smug smile permanently moulded into the face of the mannequin. Looking far more creepy now on black plastic – not that it wasn't creepy before.

Behind him, Ismay's mannequin crouched behind a wardrobe door, an excited look in her glass eyes. I shiver. This is _messed up_. Even the plastic figure of a girl I don't recognise freaks me out.

And I can't miss the two mannequins stuffed under the bed. Miriam and Emmett. They look ghostly like the real people. My blood is chilled. I'm frozen in the spot. My throat is filled with fear.

My hands automatically fling to my face to make sure I'm not made of plastic either.

"Ester!"

The sound of my voice is dim and distant. But I can still hear it clearly.

My head snaps in the direction of it.

Something snatches my breath. There, through the window, across a stretch of rocky, snowy land, is another window. Another building. And through it stands Weylyn. The real one. He looks terrified. "Ester!" He cries again.

I run for the window, pressing my hands against it. "Guys!" I cry, wanting to smash through the glass. I reach down and tug at the window latch. But it doesn't move. It's stuck. I let out a frustrated groan.

In the reflection, I can see the mannequins that I share this room with. I'm terrified that if I drop my gaze from them, they'll move, their heads creaking to look at me.

"Weylyn, are you guys alright?!" I shout through the glass, my voice cracking. Somehow he manages to hear me through the two layers of glass and he nods.

Then it dawns on me. He's in a room exactly mirroring mine – though his looks like a far more beat up version.

This maniac – whoever he is – has built a complete replica of the house Weylyn and the others are in. And plunked me right in it.

Well, damn.

* * *

 **A/N:** _Fun Fact: I named Weylyn that name for a reason. It actually means "son of a wolf". See any connection here? ;)_

 _ **Mogitz:** Believe me, Weylyn is as fun to write as he is as fun to read XD_

 _ **Sandstorm820:** I'm glad I've gained your approval! I've heard that a lot – OC characters are hard to make readers love in a fanfic world. I'm so glad you love them as much as me! _

_**DreamsCPape:** It is xD I'm glad you like Jae! She's badass, so she's great, haha! (making up for her grandfather's doorMATT-ness ;D) Nope. Miriam doesn't talk. You'll know why soon enough. I hope it's not cliché XD_

 _ **DouchebagMentlegen:** Ahaha, he is a goof. Dork. He is certainly the comic relief. I hope you and your co-author find/found something!_


	7. Because Weylyn's a dick

**Synopsis:** The survivors of the mountain said nothing. They kept the experience locked tight inside their hearts. No wonder their grandchildren are so curious about the history of their grandparents. So when they all receive a letter in the post tempting them to the mountain, what will they discover? And what really went down on that mountain?

 **Genre:** Mystery, Humour, Romance, Angst, Horror

 **Ending:** All survive

 **Rating:** T/M – Just in case, you know...

 **A/N:** _Once again, I never got to posting this out yesterday. Apologies! It may be that I don't manage to do one every day but I'll try my best to stick to it!_

* * *

 **Chapter Seven**

 _ **Because Weylyn's a dick**_

"We need to get out of here," Weylyn roughly scrapes his fingers through his dark hair, stooping to make eye contact with Miriam. The blonde looks terrified, her eyes filling with trembles. She can tell that Weylyn is planning something. So can I.

"Weylyn," I snap, trying to grab his attention. He ignores me. Instead, his fingers lift to his neck, skimming his hands across that metal band around his neck. We all have them. Even the new girl hasn't lucked out on that one.

Weylyn grunts, trying to pry his fingers underneath the metal and rip it off. What the hell is he thinking? He might think he's the Hulk, but there's no way he could get that off with his bare hands.

"Weylyn!" I bark.

"What?!" He snaps back at me. He's impatient. Anxious. And suddenly I know why. He's going to leave us. He's going to take Miriam and leave.

But instead of confronting him, I simply swallow, hold back my snarl and I say, "What's going on?"

Weylyn's gaze drops from mine, avoiding it. His hands are clamped at his neck, but I can see the sweat glistening on his palms. I know that if Emmett was fully aware right now, he wouldn't be letting Weylyn off with this. Neither am I.

"He's being a dick," Jae says plainly. I dart my gaze to her. She's far too concerned about checking her person for any of her belonging that this maniac supposedly stole. She looks entirely unfazed, like she's been through this situation before.

"I'm not being a d-" Weylyn snaps to his feet, protesting. But his voice gives him away.

"Don't even deny it," Jae shrugs, not even meeting his eyes. She's too high up for that. "He really didn't leave anything, did he?" She sighs before crouching to the floor and picking up a metal bar of some sort. "At least he gave me this," she hums, extending it and I realise it's a selfie stick. Then drums it against her palm like she's going to beat someone up with it. "This could do some damage."

Then I catch a glimpse at the end of it. A cellphone. _My_ cellphone.

"Hey," I call out, my voice tight. How the hell could it be my phone? It fell down the mountain. It broke. It _disappeared_. I'm just imagining things. Right? "Can I have a look at that?" I ask as politely as I can muster, motioning towards the selfie stick.

Jae sends an incredulous look at me. "Hell no."

I'm about to swear at her just when I hear a groggy voice command, "Give it to her."

Emmett? I glance around to see his eyes looking at me from under the bed, his lids half closed, his face contorted in pain. But he looks determined. He's got that set look in his eyes, and that hard, commanding voice. The one that demands to be listened to.

Jae rolls her eyes, scoffing, evidently about to do exactly the opposite, when Weylyn mutters half-heartedly, "Give it to her."

Emmett blinks in his woozy state at Weylyn, evidently befuddled to hear the other male agree with him. But I'm not surprised right now. Weylyn's ego levels have seriously been pegged down a few notches. That's what happens when he's shoved in the thick of things.

"Fine," Jae snaps before chucking the selfie stick over at me, the metal almost lobbing me against the head – and knocking me out a second time.

I don't even care about the stick. It's the phone. I need to know if it's really my phone. If I'm _really_ going crazy. I snap the phone off the end of the stick, rolling the latter back over to Jae. She shrugs, rolling it with her foot before picking it up again.

I spin the phone around in my hand, feeling it's familiar weight. My stomach tightens. It's the same blue, paint splattered case, the same model of iphone. It's even got the small crack at the top right hand corner of the screen from when I accidentally dropped it into my cereal bowl.

I feel like I'm going to be sick. This is my phone. The one that Weylyn stole, the one that got knocked down the mountain. The one that's supposed to be _destroyed_.

How?

"Issie?" Emmett asks, his voice croaking. I lift my gaze up. I know he can see it too. He's terrified. We're both terrified. I can't stop shaking. The phone rattles in my hands.

At least Emmett has somewhere to hide.

At least he's not alone.

Miriam passes a worried look between us. Emmett shakes his head, assuring her he's okay. Every thing's okay. I wish I could be so sure.

I glance back at the wardrobe I'm half positioned in. It's bare and empty and dusty. I would greatly appreciate it right now if it led to Narnia. Anywhere would be better than here. Even if it was freezing cold.

Bang! Weylyn snaps to his feet, his foot kicking the mannequin's head, it rolling in the direction of Miriam. I do the opposite, sitting down completely on the cold, wooden floor, staring menacingly at the painted lines that contain me. I had seen what had happened to Weylyn when he'd tried to cross them so I wasn't entirely willing to try it out for myself. Emmett looks like he's about to roll out from under the bed and investigate the bang for myself but I send him a shake of my head and point to the metal bar around my neck. I can see him swallow, his hands reaching up to discover his, and then slowly, unsurely nods back.

"Weylyn!" The distant, dulled voice shouts again. I can't see her but I know it's Ester. Weylyn shouted her name not that long ago. He's trying to ignore her now. He knows that if he looks her in the eye, he'll feel the guilt rip through his stomach at what he's about to do to us.

Ass.

Miriam has picked up the mannequin head, peering into the hollow of it's neck. Emmett looks on, pointing at something within it. And Miriam's tugging it out.

A bundle of rolled up paper. "A script," Emmett breathes as he takes it from Miriam's offering hands and unrolls it.

"Weylyn!" Ester calls again.

My cellphone pings with a message. My eyes snap to it. I stare. It blinks with no signal. How could I get a text message?

I can feel my gut wringing as I flick the message open.

 _Hey, sis,_ It 's from Chandler. I suddenly feel an urge to want to run up and hug him. I've never really been a huggy kind of person, especially not with my brother. But his name sparks memories of being safe. Being _free_. And all I want to do is find him and run into his arms and forget ever coming up here. _How's your little adventure going? Hope you're having fun! C_.

He's so oblivious. Idiot!

I stab out a reply, telling him just that. And then cracking out the words, _Call 911!_ But as soon as I finish the sentence, the words delete themselves. I stare incredulously at it, letting out a little whimper.

I try calling him. Just a lifeless, never ending beep. Frustration and anxiety build up in me and I want to through the frickin thing across the room.

"What?!" Weylyn snaps at Ester through the window. His hands are clawing at his hair. He's frustrated and panicked too. I think this is the first time I've ever found anything in common with him.

Emmett's mouthing words as his eyes skim the script. " _Maybe we should start with a little..._ this is messed up," he mutters.

"I need your help!" Ester calls.

Weylyn shakes his head. He looks desperate.

"Help her," I growl. "For goodness sake."

"Told you he was a dick," Jae shakes her head, scoffing. She's joined me on the floor and looks like she's about to fall asleep, sending a fake yawn into the air. If I gave her a bag of popcorn, I'm sure she'd be munching on it, watching the scene unfold. Or she'd be using it to through at the actors.

To be honest, so would I.

"I can't," his voice breaks, avoiding my eyes. He knows something. Something none of us

"Why?" Emmett asks, finally looking up from the script.

Weylyn flinches. He grits his teeth, like he's trying to fight something. Then he closes his eyes, his fists clenching. His jaw, stiff, opens. And, through a tight voice, he says, " _Maybe we should start with a little, you know, making out, and see where it goes from there_."

A click.

The door creaks open.

And he's reaching down, grabbing Miriam by the arm and pulling her out from under the bed. Then they both hurry out of the room, Miriam glancing behind at us with worry creased eyes as they leave. Abandoning us.

And they don't even get any electric shocks.

Jae mutters, "Well, I'm out of here," as she easily saunters out of her circle and, shoving the mannequin aside, hurries off on her own, selfie stick in hand.

My phone pings with a text message.

It says it's from "Maniac." My throat tightens. At least the asshole knows who he is. With shaking hands, Emmett squeezing out from under the bed and crouching down beside me. Despite myself, I reach for his hand. He cups mine back. I click the text message open;

" _Dick_."

* * *

 **A/N:** _Great job, guys. Always separate in a horror movie style situation. Fabulous move there._

 _ **DreamsCPape:** Ester is pretty awesome. Takes after her Grandmama ;D_

 _ **The Ben Who Must Not Be Named:** Intense, indeed it is._


	8. Because voices haunt us

**Synopsis:** The survivors of the mountain said nothing. They kept the experience locked tight inside their hearts. No wonder their grandchildren are so curious about the history of their grandparents. So when they all receive a letter in the post tempting them to the mountain, what will they discover? And what really went down on that mountain?

 **Genre:** Mystery, Humour, Romance, Angst, Horror

 **Ending:** All survive

 **Rating:** T/M – Just in case, you know...

 **A/N:** _Another chapter today because you guys deserve it!_

* * *

 **Chapter Seven**

 _ **Because voices haunt us**_

 _Don't look back, Weylyn._ My ears fill with the sound of our rushed footsteps, Miriam tugging on my arm, begging me to turn back. But I can't. _They'll be fine,_ I assure myself. But my gut isn't so sure. Nothing about me is sure. I keep seeing Ismay's face as she stares at me, her eyes glaring with betrayal. And Ester's voice, shouting for me to help her.

I want to throw my hands over my ears and block it out. But I can't. My fingers twitch, my muscles tensing, only ever focusing on gripping onto Miriam's hand and keeping her beside me as we dive into the darkness.

It was only ever the two of us in the first place. I have no obligation to protect anyone else. They came here on their own. We came here on our own. We can leave on our own.

Every thing is black. I can't see anything. I just keep running, footsteps echoing against wood, tugging Miriam behind me. She's whimpering, her fingers digging into my hand, trying to pry it off.

"I can't let go of you," I say, my voice breaking. I'm even shocked myself at how broken it sounds. "I'm sorry."

She wants to go back. She wants to help the others. She was always the good one out of the two of us.

But I'd had to take the chance. I'd found the slip of paper underneath the metal bar around my neck. It had given me two options. Ally or Betray.

Betray promised an easy escape for me and Miriam. All I had to do was say that one sentence. Then the door would open, our bands would deactivate and we could run.

I had to do it for her.

Somehow the Maniac knew I'd try and take the band off. He knew I'd find that note. He knew I'd pick Betray.

This sicko freaks me out.

There's another distant thumping behind us, going in the opposite direction. One of the others got out too. Part of me is relieved. I didn't completely doom them then.

But then I remember Jae. And that terrifying selfie stick. She might knock me out with it.

"Okay," I pull Miriam to a stop, huddling close to her. I can feel her hair against my shoulder and her hands tugging at my arm. "Follow the wall," I whisper. "We might be able to find a door."

It was the best option we had. In the dark, we'd just be fumbling around endlessly.

I can't see her but I feel her nod, her body shifting. We shuffle around as best as we can until we our fingers connect with the cold, ridged surface of the wall. I keep Miriam closest to the wall, my body shielding her as we walk along the wall, our breaths puffing out in front of us. The footsteps from the other person have hurried off, their echoes dying off.

And it's deadly quiet. All we can hear is our breaths in our throats and our weighted footsteps and my heart crashing inside the empty cavity of my chest.

 _Click!_

My breath hitches. Light filters in from a crack in the roof. Or is that a bulb? I can't tell. But it's got an eerie way of time keeping.

Because, just as the light flickers on, only sending a stray flicker across the ominous shapes of stairs and furniture and gaping holes in the floor, a crackle emits from speaker or something.

I freeze, tugging Miriam to a stop.

And then-

"Home sweet home." A voice trickles in. Footsteps follow it but there is no one there to make it. Miriam grips onto my hand. She doesn't realise I'm just as scared as her. I'm not supposed to be. I need to look strong for her. Strong enough so that she can cling onto me.

"Sweet is not the word I'd use," another voice filters in. Where are these voices coming from. They sound crackly. Like they're from a recording. But they are so alive in this space too. I keep a hold of Miriam's hand, piecing my way over to a nearby railing.

The room below is wrecked. Where sofas used to be are now charred messes. Fire has eaten away at the walls, leaving black goo behind. Ashes are smeared across tiled floors and rugs are half chewed. But there's no one there. Just light. Just cold, blue light shifting around the room like it's alive. Like it's a person.

My breath shudders. But I grab some confidence and stuff it into my bones. What harm can light do?

"Oh my gosh its _so good_ to be inside," a female disembodied voice pipes up as I help Miriam down the nearby stairs, the wood creaking as we avoid huge holes burned through it. "Even if it's still kinda freezing in here."

"I'll get a fire going."

I scoff at that one. I'm pretty sure there's already been a fire here.

The voices continue haunting, tuned perfect to echo into the whole place. If Ismay and Emmett are still upstairs, I'm almost positive they'll be hearing them too. But I keep moving, checking each step to make sure it won't fall through before guiding Miriam over it. She keeps sighing. And I know what that means. _"I can walk on my own"_ her eyes say. But I can't afford to let her go. I'm scared that if I do, she'll disappear. She'll disintegrate into dust.

"What's up party people!" Another male voice breaks into the scene. I freeze, our feet on the bottom step. Miriam glances to me. _"He sounds like you_ ". Damn right he does. It's like he's stolen my voice. I want to reach up and clutch my neck just to make sure it's still there. That this damn metal band hasn't sucked up my vocal chords like in that girly, Disney, underwater movie.

I feel chills. The lights shift, breaking off into seven beams moving across the room. At the pace of footsteps. I understand now. They're following the movements of whoever was here before. Like they're trained on their feet, on where they walked.

And two of them were my grand parents.

"We need to go," I whisper to Miriam, scanning to room for a front door or even a window I could smash through. Anything. All of it's boarded up, curtained over. Secluded.

I run a frustrated hand through my hair. From how many times I've done that already tonight, it's most likely a complete mess. Though mess is probably sexy on me.

The voices cut out. The lights freeze.

"Not a good idea, Weylyn," the speaker crackles. This time with a real life voice.

I let out a groan. "What do you want now?!" I snap. I spin around like I would be able to see him. Miriam's eyes flicker with panic as she searches the walls, looking for where the voice is coming from.

"No need to be so harsh, Weylyn," the voice coos. I growl. "It is not me doing any of this."

"Don't be an Ass Hat!" I swear, looking up at the roof. Like I can find him there. Like I can glare holes through him.

Then; one of the charred walls lights up with an image. Footage. From a surveillance camera. The timer at the bottom says today's date. Today's time.

"I'm just following your wonderful Director," the voice sweetly says. I want to choke him.

Because, on that screen, is Ester. In another version of this room. In a cleaner, faker version of this room. And, with fear in her eyes, she looks straight through the camera. Straight back at me.

Because she's not alone.

The maniac is with her.

* * *

 **A/N:** _I literally had to re-watch the opening sequence of Until Dawn Chapter 1, the part where the characters go into the lodge. And it seriously brought back all the feels._


	9. Because knights come in blonde hair

**Synopsis:** The survivors of the mountain said nothing. They kept the experience locked tight inside their hearts. No wonder their grandchildren are so curious about the history of their grandparents. So when they all receive a letter in the post tempting them to the mountain, what will they discover? And what really went down on that mountain?

 **Genre:** Mystery, Humour, Romance, Angst, Horror

 **Ending:** All survive

 **Rating:** T/M – Just in case, you know...

 **A/N:** _This chapter literally could have gone on forever... I cut it short before I got carried away!_

* * *

 **Chapter Seven**

 _ **Because knights come in blonde hair**_

 _Ester. Ester,_ I try and break through the fear locking my skull, trying to think rationally. _Just Breathe. You're going to be okay._

But I'm not, am I?

I can feel the harrowing presence of the man lurking beside me, the body heat radiating off him, making my skin itch and curdle. He's clad completely in black; like he's designed himself to perfectly fit into the shadows. Like he's _made_ out of shadows. A balaclava is pull over his head, only a pair of icicle eyes staring through it. I imagine him smiling manically behind the fabric, teeth tearing through lips, eyes twisting towards me. I want to bolt for it. I want to break out of the seat he's forced me into, snap the ropes tying my wrists. And I want to break the chair in half and use it as a weapon against him. Splinters can hurt a hell of a lot.

But I can't. The two pairs of eyes staring back at me through the projection keep me there. Weylyn and Miriam. They're filled with fear too. Whether for me or just for themselves, I don't know. But it's there. Lingering underneath their skin, ready to burst through.

People do crazy things when they're scared.

My head darts around, mapping out my location. The cold, concrete tiles are glinted with cool, blue moonlight and the glare from the projection, the sharpness of the light sinking into carpets and wooden walls. I remember where Brayden is, coordinates ready in my mind, if he hasn't already woken up - though I doubt he'd move. He'd be too comfortable. If I escape, I'll run to him. As much as he's just a lump of mass, I'm not leaving him. He's more than a lump of mass to somebody. He's more than a lump of mass to me. I couldn't live with myself if I left him here.

Then the projection cuts out. Like somebody stabs it with a knife, killing it. The light dims.

Almost instantly, the man beside me rips off his balaclava and I almost yelp.

"Okay," he mutters, untying me from the chair. The rope has left raw red lines against the pale skin of my wrists. I hiss, the pain throbbing, and I tentatively run my fingers over the wounds. He could have given me a little wiggle room.

"Sorry," he says swiftly, sounding genuine, as he notices them. "I had to make it look convincing."

I almost send a glare up at him. Apologies don't really heal wounds, do they?

Then I catch a glimpse of tufts of dark blonde hair, a pale skinned, elongated face. "We need to go," he says, sounding urgent. And he hooks his hand into my elbow, tugging me out of the chair. It doesn't take much effort on his part, given that my muscles are almost completely frozen, my eyes just staring at him. He just tied me up. He just stole me from the room upstairs, threw me in a chair and chained me to it with rope. And now he's untying me? Letting me go? _Why?_

I don't know what to think.

"I'm helping you," he assures me, like he can read my mind. Then he lifts his eyes to meet mine. And the blue in them has warmed. Like the bubbling, warm waters of a hot tub.

And they look _so_ much like Ismay's. Like he's stolen hers right out of her skull.

"Who are you?" My tight voice asks. But I snatch some strength with my hands and grip it in my fists, keeping my eyes focused and on him. I need to look unmovable. Like I'm fighting against a wild animal.

"Chandler," he casually throws out, continuing to usher me away. He's too distracted on escaping. "Pleased to meet you."

So _this_ is the mysterious Chandler. At least now he has a face. Instead of a sticky note.

"I thought you weren't supposed to be here," I say casually, though my throat is small. Wheezy. I'd never let on.

Chandler's face breaks out in a grin. "Power of misdirection," he sweeps the words off his shoulders. The way he looks, how tall he is, the worn creases on his forehead tell me he must be around about twenty-five. The experience in his eyes tell a different story. "Do you really think a maniac would leave a sticky note?" He has the same creases around his mouth as Ismay's when he smiles. The same glint in his eye.

Are they related?

Can I trust him?

But before I even have a chance to sort out either of those questions in my head, Chandler ushers me around, his hand on my forearm. And I almost scream, my feet stumbling back and almost tripping.

There. Stood at the bottom of the steps, are the mannequins of Weylyn and Miriam. Stood stalk still, light glinting off their black, plastic skin. Yet they moved. Like they had a mind of their own.

"What? How?" I splutter out, wanting to fight against Chandler's arm, to run away. I can deal with normal mannequins. But when they move? Not so much.

"Oh, don't worry about those," Chandler says, noticing the direction of my attention. He tugs me past them, obviously getting quite irritated at how much I'm stalling. Sorry, Chandler, if it's hard for me to trust someone who just tied me up. And says not to worry about the moving _mannequins_! "They just move in sync with the people in the other house. Something to do with trackers inside their neck bands."

Our footsteps are hollow against carpets and tiles. The room smells so empty. Clean, like it's just been cleaned. There isn't even any bacteria to fill up the hollow spaces. I purposefully grab Chandler's fist around my arm, noticing the glint of a wedding ring, and shove his hand off. He stares at me, accusingly. Worried. I just give him a look that says _"I'm not a dog."_

"How do you know so much?" I start, trying to calm my voice down. _No confrontations, Ester._

"It's a long story," Chandler says. I wait for him to elaborate. But he doesn't. Instead, he just keeps on moving, shifting into shadows, following walls. I don't know why he needs to. This house is as empty as Brayden's brain.

Except for, you know, us. And him. And a few, half a dozen, robot mannequins!

I'm sure if Brayden were awake, he'd be slurring out the words, "So cool." With a string of endless o's. He doesn't have good taste.

"Did you see Issie?" Chandler passes the sentence towards me, not even looking in my direction. Instead, he's pacing corridors, pressing against walls, yanking on door handles. Unsuccessfully, I might add – you'd think he'd have more of a plan for this.

"Issie?"

"My sister," he turns around to face me. And I suddenly see the panic in his eyes. The worry. The love. "Ismay?"

Siblings. It all makes sense. "Yes," my voice breaks for him. He must be terrified. "She's in the other house-"

"Then we need to go there," he snaps, spinning back around again, set back on his mission. He's muttering over and over to himself, black gloved hands running through thick, blonde hair. "I shouldn't have let her go. I should have told her not to go. I should have-"

His words echo inside the empty space between us, bouncing against the walls and into my ears. It's so eerie. So big. The whole building. Like a plastic model, a replica. A dolls house. And the maniac is just playing with us.

In this huge, big, empty space.

"What do I know about this place?" I ask, my feet stalling. Chandler's follow. His back stiffens but he doesn't turn around. I can barely see his figure in the dim light of the moon, skimming across his black covered shoulders, smeared across one side of his pale face.

Then he breathes. His shoulders heave. He swallows down a breath. "This isn't the first time this has happened," he finally manages to confess, gulping.

"I figured," I say bluntly, knowing that, whatever this theatrical was, it was implying that this happened with our grandparents. But my voice is soft. It reaches out to him like a hand. He's just terrified for his sister. He's come to save her, as every knight in shining armour should.

"No," he interrupts me, his face turning just enough so he can see me. And I can see his profile. The worry engraved, scratched as features on his face. "I mean after then. With my dad. Our parents."

Then he finally turns to look at me, his body facing mine. And it suddenly hits me. Every single word he says. "This has been done before. We're not the first."

* * *

 **A/N:** _Dun dun_ duuuuuuuuuuuuun _!_

 _Anyone else excited to Chandler? -raises hand- oh... only me? Okay..._


	10. Because air vents are dusty

****Synopsis:**** The survivors of the mountain said nothing. They kept the experience locked tight inside their hearts. No wonder their grandchildren are so curious about the history of their grandparents. So when they all receive a letter in the post tempting them to the mountain, what will they discover? And what really went down on that mountain?

 ** **Genre:**** Mystery, Humour, Romance, Angst, Horror

 ** **Ending:**** All survive

 ** **Rating:**** T/M – Just in case, you know...

 ** **A/N:**** __Thank you for all the reviews from last chapter! I'm excited to see Chandler too!__

…

 **Chapter Ten**

 **Because air vents are dusty**

"Should we move?" I ask stiffly under my breath, glad that I'm not alone. And even more glad that it is Emmett with me. He has this kind of comfortable air about him. He's familiar. A piece from home, some kind of reality to cling onto.

But he doesn't need to know that.

"I don't know," he whispers back, twisting his head just enough to peer above the window sill. Even if Weylyn was going to abandon us and Ester, we weren't. It was kind of common sense, right? The more people you have on your side, the less that are against you.

But when we'd moved to help her, to try and communicate between the two windows, a black figure had pounced, grabbing her and stealing her out. And Emmett and I had dived to the floor, pressing our backs against the wall underneath the window and trying not to breathe.

"It's clear," Emmett breathes, stretching his muscles to climb to his feet. The worst thing about clinging onto someone's hand is that, when they move, you have to move too.

I groan, Emmett tugging me to my feet. "Thanks," I grumble, dropping his hand and flexing my fingers, my palm clammy. What kept me holding his hand, I don't know. Blame it on instinct. Blame it on comfort.

Maybe fear.

I shuffle my feet as my hand finds my cellphone that I stuffed in my pocket in panic. I balance the familiar weight in my palm, checking the screen again.

"Is it really...?" Emmett starts, finding his way to my side and peering over my shoulder. I know he doesn't even need to ask that question. He already knows. It's my phone.

I flick off the screen before he can see the last text I got, dropping the phone back in my pocket. He doesn't need to see. Maybe if I hide it away, I can pretend it didn't happen.

"Let's go," I hook my hand into the crook of his elbow, yanking him towards the door. There is no way in hell I'm staying in this room longer than I have to.

The floorboards creak underneath the weight of our footsteps as we hurry forward. They groan in time with my heartbeat. Mingle with our breaths.

And slow as we approach the gaping, black hole where the door used to be. It's like a sticky, dark mouth ready to gobble us up. I can almost feel it's inky, smoky breath against my skin.

My stomach curdles. I can see the conflict battling inside Emmett's eyes too. He steps back.

That's when the voices begin.

" _Home sweet home_."

My breath hitches. They're far away. Distant. But distinct, droning. Trickling through a speaker. And so eerily existent, like they're in the same room as us.

" _Sweet is not the word I'd use."_

The rustling of paper snaps my gaze away from the door frame, landing on Emmett's hands. His eyes are skimming the script, his breathy heavy and so close to my ear. A tongue slips out of his mouth to wet his dry lips. A nervous tick he's had since I met him. Before, I used to think it was annoying. Now it's familiar. Reassuring. A little piece of reality.

"They're on the script," he breathes, finger skimming under sentences.

"What?" I swallow, hooking my chin over his elbow, following the tip of his finger with my gaze.

There it is. The exact lines we're hearing, typed out on paper, trickling with glistening, black ink. Real. Predicted. Making our hearts beat faster and our throats clog up with hitched breaths. This is so creepy.

A scream breaks our thoughts. Our eyes snap up. Loud, heavy footsteps running upstairs. I swear underneath my breath. Emmett does it repeatedly.

"We need to get out of here," Emmett's voice almost breaks with panic as he roughly rolls the script up and stuffs it into his back pocket. It'll be like a map. It'll show us the way not to go. The things not to do.

The things to be prepared for.

Like being confronted with a maniac torturer who can perform magic tricks with destroyed phones

I yank my staring eyes from open, eerie doorway, filled with darkness, smoky and thick like fog. And the ominous sound of danger. The rhythm of death. I almost choke on it.

Instinctively, we scurry around the room, our eyes frantically searching for a way out. Almost immediately, I leap towards the window, trying to pry it open with my fingers. But it's stuck. Stiff. Unmoveable. I swear, letting out a cry of frustration.

"Issie!" Emmett hisses from across the room.

I dart around. My eyes meet Emmett who has climbed on top of the bed, the scraping of metal against wood high pitched and screeching as he heaves across an air vent cover.

"Up here," he ushers me forward. Without even thinking, without even giving myself a second to doubt his actions, I dive over to the bed, lunging on top of it and, with Emmett pushing me up, squeeze into the small, tight tunnel shaped hole.

"Emmett," I hiss, ushering him up as he swings himself into the vent behind me, grunting as he does.

I don't give myself enough time to hear whoever ran into the room as I crawl frantically along the dusty, cramp, metal vent. The air is clogged up here. Tight. It's like it hasn't been working for years. How ironic.

Our breaths choke the spaces around us, metallic echoes of our scraping and shuffling limbs. "Emmett?" I whisper. Just to make sure he's behind me. Just to make sure he's still there.

"I'm here," he puffs out. Like he's out of breath. Like the vents of stolen it just to get some air back. But his tone is reassuring. As if he instantly understands exactly what I'm thinking, how I'm feeling.

Metal walls press against my shoulders, wedging me between them as I force my way through. The unstable slabs underneath us groan with our weight.

"Just keep going," Emmett encourages me forward. But the crack in his voice tells me he's not so sure. But what choice do we have? We have to keep on going. There's no way back.

A scream rips through the metal, vibrating it underneath us. Like an earthquake. I shriek.

"Issie?" Emmett's panicked voice breaks behind me.

I breathe, swallowing stiffly before glancing behind me. I think this is the first time I've shown him the fear in my eyes. It bubbles like tears. I choke on them. "I'm alright," I whisper.

I can't tell what's real anymore. Are the screams real? Are the voices real? Is anything real?

"No, you're not," Emmett says simply. A sentence that cracks open my soul. How can anyone see so much inside of me? "It's alright not to be okay."

"No it's not!" I snap back at him, twisting my head enough that I can see him. His eyes are wide, his eyebrows creased. His lips are parted, frozen in a word. Dust has fallen onto his black hair, making it look grey. "I _need_ to be okay! To get through this, I-"

"Issie," Emmett breaks my words off, his hand effortlessly stretching forward to scoop up my hand.

But before his fingers can brush my skin, another voice croaks, low and gruff. "Help?" It's a little whimper. A question, unsure of whether he needs help at all.

Our eyes pass a glance between them. Wordless but knowing exactly what the other is thinking. _Should we?_

Light cracks out from the metal a few paces away, breaking through slits in the vent. With trepidation, I shuffle forward, feeling Emmett close behind me.

"Issie, I'll-"

"I can do it," I say. The snap in my voice cuts Emmett off. I try not to show the guilt in my features. But it digs its claws in my stomach.

Slowly, I curl up at the side of the vent grate and, cautiously, peek through the slits. And there, strapped to a chair in the centre of the room below is a burly, drowsy figure.

 _Brayden._


	11. Because ouija boards don't work

****Synopsis:**** The survivors of the mountain said nothing. They kept the experience locked tight inside their hearts. No wonder their grandchildren are so curious about the history of their grandparents. So when they all receive a letter in the post tempting them to the mountain, what will they discover? And what really went down on that mountain?

 ** **Genre:**** Mystery, Humour, Romance, Angst, Horror

 ** **Ending:**** All survive

 ** **Rating:**** T/M – Just in case, you know...

 ** **A/N:**** __Sorry for the slight delay! Here's the new chapter!__

* * *

 **Chapter Ten**

 **Because ouja boards don't work**

I swear if I ever get my hands on whoever is doing this, I'm gonna kill them.

"Come on, Miriam," I urge her, desperately trying to get her to move. I'd never force her to go anywhere, but right now, in this moment, I'm very tempted to just lug her over my shoulder and _move_.

She's huddled in a corner, her eyes wide and terrified. Her limbs are a mess around her, curled up to her chest, her blonde hair sprawled out like tentacles. She's scared that if she moves, she'll get hurt or trigger a trap or fall through the floor - well, the latter might be a blessing. Anything to get away from this place.

Me? I can almost feel this maniac's eyes crawling over my back. Like bugs and slime and- I shudder, shaking the feeling off.

It's black and inky and I don't want to think about it.

It was the screams that did it. They ripped through the air, slicing necks in their path. Miriam's muscles had instantly frozen, her eyes spilling with fear, her limbs shaking. I told her it wasn't real. That it was all just a stupid recording to scare us. I wasn't stupid enough to believe it. Right?

The scuffing above our heads, like rats in a drainpipe, didn't help though. Dust and crumbling concrete tumbled down on top of our heads, dribbling down our noses. This place is falling apart.

The second scream had shoved Miriam to the floor, followed by a banging on a door, rattling of handles. It was distant but it was present. _Real_. It _felt_ real.

But I had to keep telling Miriam it wasn't. Despite the constant, throbbing thumping of my heart inside my chest. Despite the clogging in my throat. Despite the doubt in my mind.

" _Heeeeeey_ ," a voice drones from not too far away. It feels like this has been going on for hours. It's muffled like it's coming from behind a door. " _Heeeeeeey._ "

 _"What the_ hell _?"_ Another voice cracks.

Miriam looks like she's just gonna burst like a bubble. Like any single touch from me will make her pop into nothingness, leaving a puddle of water in her wake. The wall looks unstable behind her back, the wood rotten and burnt. I want to just reach out and grab her wrist and yank her up to her feet. I want to get out and away from here, anywhere but here.

But maybe Miriam's onto something. Maybe the best place to hide is in plain sight.

"You guys are so boring," I hear a groaning voice from across the room. I freeze. That one sounds real. I don't dare turn around in case she's equipped her selfie stick with makeshift spear heads and all round 'Weylyn-killing' stuff. "Calm down," she tuts tiredly. "I don't bite."

I wait for the punchline to hit.

"Well," she chuckles. "Not much."

Whoop. There it is.

"What do you want, Jae?" I ask, my shoulders stiff as I shuffle my body around to take a sharp glance at her. Voices accompany my movements, present in the room. I barely catch the sight of lights dancing around to the voices movements. I think I'm used to that now.

 _"What are you wearing?"_

 _"I've found my true calling."_

 _"Well, I hope you're going to take a vow of silence."_

"Just enjoying the view," she yawns as she's sprawled across a seat next to an illuminated table. I barely catch the tell tale signs of a ouija board sat on top of it. I groan. That rubbish doesn't do jack. "You work out?"

I swear at her before turning back towards Miriam. I reach out my hand. My eyes plead with her. She looks back at her, her throat swallowing. It feels like hours the more she just sits there and stares at it. Like she's reading my palm or something. Studying the length of my lines. I'll be screwed if she says I don't have much time to live.

Damn.

"What?" Jae chuckles to herself. "Something wrong with small talk?"

"Yeah, damn, Jae," I spin around to glare at her. "You think?"

Jae lets out a long sigh, sweeping away ends of her long, dark ponytail that had been clinging to her shoulder. "It's not like you're going to die or anything."

I feel an anger and frustration and _fear_ dig it's nails into the pit of my stomach. My hands grip into fists, bunched at the side of my thighs. If Jae sees them, she'll know I'm intimidated by her. I don't like looking intimidated.

"How the hell did you figure that?" I snap, my body pushing me forward, a floorboard creaking underneath my foot. It is only Miriam's small, fragile hand wrapping around my shoulder that stops me. I glance at her, the sight of her blue eyes calming me.

Miriam has always had that effect on me. Ever since her mom died, her dad having abandoned her, she came to us. Never has she once spoken since then. I think she likes to protect her voice within the cave of her mouth. It's too precious to her. Words aren't meaningless anymore.

They have to mean something.

That's why I admire her. Because she sees meaning in everything.

I assure her with the smallest smile, reluctantly relaxing my fists as she knocks one with hers, raising her eyebrow. She knows I'm stressed. Of course she does. At least she's on her feet now. That's a plus.

Jae shrugs nonchalantly. And then, like she knows the whole world, parts her dark lips, a glint in her rich eyes, and smirks. "Because all the wendigos are dead."

* * *

"The _what_?" I spit, shooting forward. Jae is unmovable, just lounging casually in that chair. Like she's been here before. Like she's _used_ to this. I want to spit at her. Even Miriam struggles to coax me back, her cold, thin fingers unnoticeable in my anger.

I don't even _know_ what's made me so frustrated. Maybe it's how Jae acts; how she thinks she knows everything. Shoves it in our faces. I can see it in her eyes that she'd gladly take any chance to betray us to live.

I choke. Isn't that exactly what I did?

I shake the thought away, forcing out the sound of Ester's shout trapped in my skull and Ismay's shocked expression. No. It wasn't shocked... it was disappointed. She'd been hoping I wouldn't do what she expected of me.

But isn't this just all what _this_ is?! Doing what this maniac expects? We walked into that cable car station, right into his gas. I found that note, I picked Betray. Just like he expected.

We _came_ here. We listened to his invitation.

What a load of idiots we are.

Jae scoffs like she didn't even hear me. Or, more likely, that she didn't want to.

I just glare at her. But the golf ball sized lump in my throat isn't budging. It bulges like my Adam's apple. What the hell is a wendigo? We never found anything on those when we did our research...

Well, more precisely; _Miriam_ did our research.

"You don't want to know," Jae merely smirks, before sliding her dark eyes over to us. I can here Miriam stumble back behind me. Instantly, I jerk my hand out towards her, waiting to feel her cold, reassuring fingers wrapping around mine. It takes her a few seconds. But she does.

And her fingers are shivering.

"You should be glad," Jae leans her chair back, slinging her legs up onto the table, knocking the ouija board. The sound is echoing and hollow, like clunking of wood. It chills me.

Those things don't even work. Right?

Then I feel Miriam tug on the side of my arm. I glance down at her. I almost swear.

She wants to listen. She wants to stay with Jae. She says Jae knows what's going on.

I would just ignore her if I didn't know Miriam was the clever one out of the two of us.

Damn.


	12. Because photographs don't talk

****Synopsis:**** The survivors of the mountain said nothing. They kept the experience locked tight inside their hearts. No wonder their grandchildren are so curious about the history of their grandparents. So when they all receive a letter in the post tempting them to the mountain, what will they discover? And what really went down on that mountain?

 ** **Genre:**** Mystery, Humour, Romance, Angst, Horror

 ** **Ending:**** All survive

 ** **Rating:**** T/M – Just in case, you know...

 ** **A/N:**** I know, I know. I haven't updated Lineage in a long while. I'm sorry! I was focusing on other projects because I really needed a step back from this – but I feel like I finally know where I'm going with this. So hopefully, updates will be more regular (not promising daily, though!)

* * *

 **Chapter Twelve**

 _ **Because photographs don't talk**_

"What are you _talking_ about?" I almost choke, pacing after Chandler as he struts down hallways, tapping on walls and cocking his head to the side. Looking, listening for something.

He doesn't respond. He's too wrapped up in his own world. How friendly.

"And would you stop trudging around? It's not helpful."

"I'll stop _trudging around_ ," Chandler mutters as his fingers push at the gold frame of a hanging picture, swinging it to the side, creaking as it's moved. There's nothing. Literally nothing there. What the hell is he looking for? "As soon as you stop asking me so many questions."

That clamps my mouth closed. My lips feel heavy, pressing sharply against each other. They feel like wax and I worry that, any minute, they'll burn and melt together. Sealed together for good.

The corners of Chandler's lips tilt upwards and he casts a sideways look at me. "That's better."

He swipes his finger along the edge of the frame, pulling back and letting the frame swing back into place with a gentle thud. "No dust," he examines it. But he doesn't look surprised. His eyebrows are raised, like he's making a point. But his eyes are as patent as if he were exactly like one of those creepy mannequins.

"So?" I find my voice, asking him cautiously. Wind chills my back, creeping up my spin, my neck and I shiver. My body wants to jolt away, imagining one of the mannequins, coal black, standing inches away from my shoulder blades. Matching my every movement. Plastic dripping like wax, like oil. Like ink. Drip drip drip on the floorboards. Like the ticking of a clock. I almost hear it inside my ear drums.

My breath hitches. Tick tick tick. Drip drip drip.

I grit my teeth, steal enough courage and sharply jut my head to look over my shoulder.

Nothing.

The sound evaporates as my relief floods in.

No mannequins. No anyone.

Just empty, echoing corridors.

"So," Chandler eyes me carefully, evidently aware of my fears.

My lips twitch up into a sheepish smile and I shrug. What can you do? It's a creepy lodge up on a mountain in the middle of the night. With a maniac about. Also moving mannequins. I'm not gonna be pleased about it.

"It's too clean," he brushes his forefinger and thumb together as if there really was dust on them. A habit he's probably picked up. "Too perfect." In a swift movement, he's reaching out for the photo frame again, once again pulling it aside. He'll probably end up knocking it off soon. "Look," he points to the wallpaper underneath it.

Creasing my eyebrows as I step cautiously forward, I glance at where he's pointing, his fingertip pressed right up against the wall. "What?" I keep staring, searching for anything remotely point-worthy. I mean, the wallpaper isn't exactly tasteful. A little outdated but what's wrong with that? People like vintage. What's that got to do with ' _No dust'_? I almost imitate Chandler's voice in my head.

I feel my face curl even more into confusion. "I don't see anything."

"Exactly," Chandler sighs as if the point is so obvious. I feel like glaring at him. He looks smug like he knows I want to. "There's nothing. No signs of fading, no wear and tear."

I open my mouth to protest, but I struggle for words. They form into jumbled messes on my tongue, their meanings only clicking as soon as they are breathed out through the puffs of my condensation. "But there wouldn't be, would there? Underneath the frame, it would be protected from- _Oh_ ," the word spills out as my mind begins to birth them truth, finally understanding what he means. If the frame had been there for a long time, it would have left a perfectly frame shaped square underneath it while the wallpaper around it would have faded. But there isn't one. There's no difference. No different shades in wallpaper, no patterns faded by sunlight. Nothing.

It's like the frame isn't even there.

"Maybe," I say quietly. Even if I know the words are useless. Like an excuse, anything so I don't have to accept this. "The frame was just put up recently?"

Chandler snorts, followed by a shrug. But he doesn't respond more than that. It's as if he knows the suggestion is stupid. But instead of voicing it, he simply straightens his shoulders and returns to his endless inspecting.

What a great host.

I keep feeling like I'm trapped in a freezer. Each inch of this lodge is filled with cold, frost biting the air, snapping like wolf fangs. I hunch over myself, clutching arms around my body, numb fingertips digging into my fleshy skin.

It's not exactly the most welcoming of places, I have to admit. I wouldn't dream of coming here on a holiday resort, with mannequins as my travel buddies – is that even a thing? Travel buddies?

Chandler is shuffling around again, aimlessly picking up flicks of paper from tables, tapping on walls like they might swing open into Narnia. Yet something tugs at the bottom of my stomach. The same thing flooding my throat. The intense feeling that he's not aimless at all.

That each action he takes, he's done it all before.

"You still didn't tell me what you meant?" I cough sharply, piercing my eyes in Chandler's direction. Even if he can't see me, or the harshness them. I'm pretty sure he's able to _feel_ them against the back of his head, burning and spluttering shreds wood like a drill. I smirk. It's pleasant to imagine Chandler with a wooden head. Suits him.

"Oh," Chandler hums back, distracted. He leans down to inspect an answering machine sitting on a side table. At least, he's making it look like he is. But I can tell he sounds every bit honed in on my words, my movements. Like a hawk. He isn't stupid enough to let his guard down. "Didn't I?"

I wouldn't mind through him _at_ that picture frame at the moment. Maybe I'll even smash it over his head.

Casually, Chandler stretches himself and pushes his hand into one pocket, something crinkling as his fingers curl around it. And he slides it out, casting it a single glance before holding it out to me.

"Do you," Chandler eyes me, careful with his words. I can see that this photograph is more emotional to him than he's letting on, "Recognise him?"

I swallow, my lips tight and eyebrows creased as I take a step forward and pluck the shiny photograph from his fingers. It's folded, a single crease down the centre of the face the photograph is on. Perfectly separating his nose in two. But I look past it, casting my eyes over the smiling figure in it, dark blonde hair swept up messily, eyes sharp and blue. An ice slope for a nose. Smile as wide as a canyon. "No," I say instantly, twitching my head in a shake.

Then. My tongue dries. My eyes are latched onto the figure.

Images seep into my skin. Into me. I see him, the man in the picture. Younger. Brighter. And he's there. There, beside me. He watches me, his eyes shining with smiles as he grins with his mouth. And he's reaching out with his hand. Brushing his fingers against my forearm – I feel shivers where he touches me. And I lean into him. I let him tuck strands of hair behind my ear. He peers at me, curiosity and endearment spilling over his eyes. I-

I jerk my eyes away from the photograph and throw it to the ground. Like it's hot, burning my skin. My reflexes kick in. My breath is heavy, like I've been running. My mind is cloudy, I can't concentrate.

And my skin feels heavy on my forehead, creasing like bed sheets.

I don't know him. I don't.

Why is my head betraying him? How can I be seeing him? I don't know him. I don't!

"Who is he?" My voice pinches in my throat. I feel like I can barely breathe.

Chandler looks at me plainly. Looks as if he knows it all. He knows everything about me, every crack, every crevice, ever inch of me inside and out.

I feel so exposed. Like there's no where in myself that I can't hide.

I don't know if I want to hide.

Chandler parts his lips and there's almost a hint of sympathy in his eyes. Then he says, "My father."


	13. Because puke smells rank

****Synopsis:**** The survivors of the mountain said nothing. They kept the experience locked tight inside their hearts. No wonder their grandchildren are so curious about the history of their grandparents. So when they all receive a letter in the post tempting them to the mountain, what will they discover? And what really went down on that mountain?

 ** **Genre:**** Mystery, Humour, Romance, Angst, Horror

 ** **Ending:**** All survive

 ** **Rating:**** T/M – Just in case, you know...

 ** **A/N:**** _It seems I'll probably be doing updates on a weekly basis, so I can balance all my projects! Hope you all don't mind!_

* * *

 **Chapter Twelve**

 _ **Because puke smells rank**_

"Is he breathing?" I ask cautiously, nervously watching Brayden stare with hollow eyes straight in front of him. His blonde hair flops in front of his face, dried with sweat. For a second, I think I catch his muscles twitching. And then they settle again. Into something far too chilly.

Emmett swallows beside me, taking the courage to lift Brayden's weak arm and press two fingers against the his clammy, veined wrist. Brayden doesn't so much as flinch. It's harrowing. Like I'm staring into the lifeless eyes of a doll. A mannequin.

The sound of the air vent metal grating against bricks is still ringing inside my ears; rattling inside my ear canals. As soon as I'd seen Brayden, instinctively I had gripped the vent, trying to tug it out. But it was heavy, a strain on my fingers, my arms. Puckering at veins. And dust was clogging up my throat, piling up like spider webs, coughs involuntarily hacking from the back of my mouth.

"Here, let me," Emmett had politely offered, reaching out to grip onto to the grate where my fingers were jabbed in. I'd practically hissed at him, almost smacking his hand away. That's the thing with me. I'm not an entirely compliant human being. Call me a feminist, call me whatever label you want. Generally chivalry translates as weakness in my mind. Like a mathematical calculation. If I accept help, I'm depleting. I'm less of a human.

The thought is sometimes painful.

It hadn't taken long for Emmett's words to soon become less of a suggestion and more of an order. He'd simply sighed, like his patience was being pulled taut, thin, like a frayed rope struggling under the weight of a tug, and had pushed me aside – albeit as gently as he could – and swiftly yanked the grate up with a heave, a grunt and a clatter.

The bottom of our feet had slapped against cold concrete when we'd jumped down.

"Yeah," Emmett breathes out, an air of relief escaping him. He sounds like a deflating balloon. In any other situation, that comparison would make me snort. "Just... out of it."

"You can say that again," I mutter under my breath, finding my gaze darting around into crevices and tight spaces. Anywhere that's not staring into the bottomless pits of Brayden's eyes.

The room is cramped, choking walls pushing in on me. They're black and inky, like someone has captured shadows and built walls with them. The shadows twist and move, like unnatural heads and shoulders. Like bugs crawling, scuttling, their shiny black shells glinting in the dim, flickering light. I can almost hear their tiny, bony legs rattling in tune with one another.

I shiver, trying to knock the thought out of my brain.

Sometimes I swear I could murder my imagination.

"Issie?" Emmett freezes. I can almost feel the cold, condensation accompanying his words as he slowly asks, a sound of panic rising up in his voice.

Instinctively, I dart my gaze to him, feeling my chest tighten. "What?" I almost snap, the tension making me anxious. My senses are suddenly alert, my skin waiting for a breath behind my neck, my ears pricking to sounds of voices, of creatures. My tongue dries, tasting the heavy, bitter atmosphere.

Emmett's eyes aren't on me. Instead, their blackness is staring in horror behind her. Like he's adopted the same expression that Brayden has. The same _direction_. "Did you ever think to check," Emmett's voice quivers, his hands squeezing into fists to stop them shaking, "What he was staring at?"

My neck prickles. Like the bugs have reached my skin. My whole body. My breath catches, flooding my throat with water. Like I'm drowning. Gasping for air.

Do I want to know? Do I want to turn around?

The strained voice at the back of my mind is tight, begging me not to.

But the curiosity dancing on the tips of my fingers wants to. The muscles controlling my body. The tantalising sense of adventure sinking into my tongue.

I swallow hard, not even daring to squeeze my eyes closed in the fear that I miss something. In case I'm in danger if I do. You know, if one of those weeping angels comes sneaking up on me. I wouldn't be surprised, this is the kind of place creepy shadows would be. We've already got a mannequin.

With a shaking breath, I pep talk myself. _Ismay, it can't be that bad. If it was, Emmett would already be screaming away in terror._ But maybe I think too low of Emmett. He's not that much of a coward.

Slowly, my feet control. I pad my way around, slowly, piece by piece. Breath by breath. 180 degrees.

And I look.

A breath slumps out of my throat. Relief. It's just a projector screen. Standing alone, shadows licking at its base like flames.

"Emmett," I sigh, relief and frustration pushing out a laugh. "You scared the hell out of me-"

My words freeze. My eyes are capture by what is being projected onto the screen. A flickering, black and white ultrasound. The picture, it's pulsating. Almost like it's alive. Almost like it has a heart.

And I can feel _my_ heart stuffed in the small pocket of my throat. Suffocating me. Bleeding me.

Because they're babies. Not fully formed, not even close. But they're there. On the picture, on the ultrasound.

Babies.

 _Twins._

"What is this?" Emmett's voice is tight. I know he's asking more than that. He knows full well what it is – anyone in their right mind could tell. But, tucked in the layers of his tongue, he's asking what it means. Why it's here. Why they're _doing_ this to us.

I can't speak. My mouth is too dry. Too heavy. Too locked. I just keep on staring. Keep on looking at the two tiny, throbbing hearts. Beating. _Ba-dum. Ba-dum. Ba-dum._

My brain kicks in. The sisters. The _twins_ in that article that Weylyn and Miriam had brought. This was where it all had started. I feel fear prick at the back of my eyes in the shape of sharp tears. Like needles. Like daggers.

The beating. It's in my ears. Like water clogging them up. _Ba-dum. Ba-dum. Ba-dum_. I can barely hear myself breathe, the sound choking the air I'm breathing. Congesting it. Squeezing every ounce of oxygen out of it.

"You don't think...?" Emmett's voice is tight, squeezing on his throat. I'm suddenly acutely aware of everything. Of the draft of a breeze creaking in through cracks in the bricks. Of the sound of dripping water from somewhere. Echoing all around me. Of the twitching of my skin. I can feel the heaviness of it on my creasing forehead.

"I do," I hear the words like they're in my ears. Filling up my body. "It's the twins that went missing."

"Are you sure?"

My head nods of its own accord, my lips dry and cracking. I can't move my eyes away from the babies on the screen.

Footsteps clog my ears. They crackle against the concrete floor.

And then Emmett is moving in front of my vision, his eyebrows creasing. He's shaking his head and I'm following his eyesight.

"It can't be," he breathes, his finger pointing at the date hovering in the lower left hand corner.

And I suddenly see what he means. Because the date doesn't read _1997_. Or any other date when the twins could have been born. Instead it reads _November 16_ _th_ _2015_. Almost a year after the twins disappeared.

I can't breathe. My eyes sting.

"Who are they then?" I croak out. _And what have they got to do with any of this_?

Emmett shakes his head, finally turning to face me, strands of his black hair quivering like his fingers.

Then his eyes are widening and he's staring past me again. How is it that _he's_ always the one to notice things?

"Brayden," Emmett breathes out.

I turn. Brayden's sat there, confusion creased across his brow. He's stiff and jointed. But awake.

"Dude," he drawls, looking positively hungover. "Where's my pizza?"

And then, in one split second, he's doubling over, puke spewing up out of his mouth and all over the hard surfaced, concrete floor.

My nose creases, the smell choking my throat. And suddenly I feel like I might be sick too.

"Sorry," Brayden snorts as he swipes a drowsy arm across his puke, smeared lips.

"He's been drugged," Emmett whispers with so much surety.

Me? I'm not so sure. Hasn't he always been like this?


End file.
